How to Eat a Pomegranate on April 24 (Winter 08)

Garin K Hovannisian
gkh2105@columbia.edu

You must be conscious first, wanting in
Desires and thirst, but even so carry within
The secret imperial appetite for new mythologies.
Now coronate the hero of our tragedy:
An ancient orb, a peasant compromise between
Chemical and clay, musing and intent, a gleam
Of orient and occident and anti-oxidant,
Martyred ambition draped in a survivable red,
The trap of Hades, sustenance for the dead,
Yet the messenger of fertility and good chance,
Persian by root but Armenian in its stance
(For even I admit the fruit tastes better here,
In the skirts of Ararat and the first fermented beer).
Caress the delicate contradictions in its frown,
Then, fully sober in your sin, slice off its crown.
Thrust your thumbs into its cracks, and break
Open its walls. But be gentle for God’s sake!
You might want to count the seeds, though we know
From experience that the average is 600; in Fresno
Eighty more, in Izmir eighty fewer.
But it is well-attested that the Armenian nur has
A million seeds, likely a million and a half—
Nationalist seeds, clean seeds of steady character,
Routed into various compartments, as if by charter.
The walls are fine, filamented curtains
That can be smoothly drawn when soaked in water.
But don’t soak them; scratch them off yourself
So you sense the solemn damnations of your crime.
You could scrape its chambered cadaver with a spoon,
But be fair to the afternoon.
Crunch each kernel individually so you can feel
Each ghost grind against your teeth; they’re real.
Now make haste, just savor its final sourness.
Some say (usually with a sigh) that it’s a protest
Against a tribunal scheduled for some future April 24….
You did not know that pomegranate stains your soul?